The Perils of Presumption (The Conclave Series Book 1) Page 6

  Charlotte blinked and turned away from the window towards Sophie. "Yes, excessively charming."

  "But that isn't why you were watching him walk away."

  Charlotte turned her head back to the view of the street. The sun gleamed down, illuminating the glossy grass and pink roses lining the front gate. Lord Hastings' fashionable figure was striding, unhurried and nonchalant, through the finest neighbourhood in town, but Charlotte had a feeling he'd look just as comfortable in the darkest alley. He was a man with an air of absolute confidence in himself as an individual, and it was almost disconcerting to be around.

  After their odd encounter with Ben, Lord Hastings had loaded them into his unmarked carriage and ferried them discreetly across town, and had been a perfect gentleman the whole time.

  Now he paused to tip his hat at a woman and her flock of pretty daughters, and they all vied for his attention with practiced flicks of their eyelashes. Charlotte wondered if she would be required to make her eyes do that.

  "Lottie?"

  "You are correct," Charlotte admitted, taking a deep breath. "When Ben - Lord Winters, that is - was whispering so wildly at me, he mentioned that the earl is a member of the Conclave."

  "Is he really?" Sophie smiled and clapped her hands together. "How wonderful! I always knew there was more to him than meets the eye. In my days at the edges of ballrooms, I liked to watch and imagine that all those gentle fops were secretly Agents of the Crown."

  Charlotte grinned at that, dragging her attention away from the Earl, as he was now out of sight. "And did you ever follow them into the gardens to see if they were engaging in clandestine activities?"

  Sophie managed to look mischievous and indignant at the same time. "What? Of course not, don't be silly." Then she leaned forward and whispered, "I did, completely by accident, stumble upon one or two of them having meetings of a sort. But nothing Crown-related, I am certain."

  "You will definitely have to point out those ones to me." Charlotte tried not to let a giggle escape, but she couldn't help it.

  "Only if you promise to tell me what exactly is between you and that strange man Lord Winters." Sophie looped her arm through Charlotte's and began dragging her towards the sitting room.

  "Between us?" Charlotte shook her head. "What do you mean?"

  "Lottie, please." Sophie paused and shot her an exasperated glance. "I am not an idiot; I beg of you not to treat me as such. You constantly slip and call him by his Christian name, he speaks to you in an awfully familiar manner and seems concerned for your wellbeing."

  "That looked like concern to you? He was being overbearing and ridiculous, as usual."

  Sophie lifted one shoulder. "Was my first instinct not also to question you for running into danger? People who are not afraid of these darker forces are fools."

  "Those darker forces have already invaded my life," Charlotte said quietly. "I have no need to fear them anymore."

  Sophie's warm eyes narrowed, and she looked almost angry for a moment, a foreign expression on her rounded features. "Perhaps that is why the ones who care about you must fear for you."

  Charlotte went quiet, glancing away from Sophie's too-intense gaze. "I cannot help that," she said. "But let us not dwell on such matters. I need to know a good day I can go back to visit my patients. Sometime next week, perhaps."

  There was a long pause, and Charlotte was sure for a moment that Sophie wouldn't let the subject go. But the air puffed out of her in a sigh and she released Charlotte's arm. "Well, next week is not ideal. Could you wait two weeks? It's just, I've already made a ridiculous number of appointments, and accepted many invitations on your behalf."

  "Two weeks would be just as well, I am sure." The only patient she was truly worried about was Henry's daughter, and there was nothing she could do for the poor girl anyway. "I shall go to my room and write to let them know of my delay."

  "Very well." Sophie hesitated, then planted a noisy kiss upon Charlotte's cheek. "I love you and your stubborn genius brain. I will send up some tea and biscuits."

  "That's really not-"

  "Yes, biscuits are always necessary." Sophie sailed off with her nose in the air, and Charlotte couldn't help but to smile.

  Perhaps biscuits would help fill the aching emptiness inside. Charlotte meandered up the stairs, allowing herself just a few moments to wish she had less detrimental things to worry about. Wishing she hadn't put that serious look in Sophie's eyes. Wishing she were home again with Avery and things were like they had been before.

  Then she put aside such useless notions, entered her room, and sat down at her writing desk. She dashed off a few quick notes to some of the villagers who were awaiting remedies. There was one man with a lingering cough, and she included a small bottle of peppermint oil in the package. Sometimes natural remedies were enough, and her energy wasn't required.

  Though at the moment she was beginning to wish it were. It had been days since she had given Henry and his daughter the last of her strength, and now it was replenished, spilling over inside her. It was the reason her family had never tried to stop her from helping anyone and everyone she could find. Some gifts were just meant to be shared.

  One more letter, this one for Henry. She tried to be gentle with him because he had always been so kind to her and was going through such a trying time.

  My Dear Friend,

  I hope this letter finds you and Margaret both well. I am so sorry I didn't have an opportunity to contact you sooner, but I must inform you that our regular weekly visit must be rescheduled. I am in town and find myself tied up in business longer than expected. I will be able to come again in two or three weeks. Should Margaret take a turn for the worse, please do not hesitate to write, and I will come sooner.

  Yours Sincerely,

  Charlotte Whitcomb

  There. Surely that was kind enough without giving him any sort of romantic encouragement. She sealed it, collected the rest of her letters on the tea tray, and brought them down the stairs to hand over to a servant for posting.

  There was no sign of Sophie in the large, empty downstairs, but as Charlotte paused outside Hollis' study, she could hear their murmured voices. She smiled and tiptoed away again, leaving them to have their time together.

  Instead her wandering feet took her towards the drawing room, where the daylight poured in over the fine furnishings and coal black pianoforte. She thought perhaps to practice a little, in case she was required to perform at any upcoming dinner parties, but her steps faltered at the doorway when she saw a familiar gentleman was already there.

  His wavy blonde hair glinted in the sun as his head bent over the pianoforte, and his fingers drifted over the keys almost wistfully, occasionally pressing down, but not hard enough to create sound.

  Almost immediately, his clear blue eyes darted up to fix upon Charlotte, though she had made no noise to signal her arrival, and his hands dropped away from the keys.

  "Hallo, Charlotte," he sang out, pushing to his feet. His long legs carried him swiftly over to her, and he clasped her hand to bow over it in greeting. "You're looking as brown and buxom as ever."

  Stirring herself out of her thoughtful daze, Charlotte smiled and bobbed an informal courtesy. "Hallo yourself, Oliver. Are you certain you ought to be calling me brown and buxom? And what are you doing here?"

  "It's bad manners to question a gentleman," he said in a dignified tone before chuckling and patting her hand. "But then, that's why I've always liked you."

  "My bad manners?" Charlotte's skin hummed with the ghost of pain as his hand brushed hers. He had an awful headache; it was a wonder he was still smiling so pleasantly.

  "Precisely." Oliver's face had a cat-that-ate-the-cream look. "It should make the Duchess of Leighton's ball absolutely riveting, if I can manage to get in."

  "Oh, does she have a policy against rakes and riff raff?" Charlotte asked, all innocence. She didn't want to reveal her power to Oliver. Oliver would tell Ben. Ben was the Conclave. She didn't trust
the Conclave.

  But she couldn't stop thinking about his poor head.

  "Very nasty, my duck, you'll do well enough." Oliver wandered back over towards the pianoforte. His fingers slipped over the keys once more. "I thought I should come to call, since you've been so kind as to send your well wishes. The maid left to fetch you, but you must have found me first."

  "Doing your duty, then." Charlotte rolled her eyes and perched on the arm of the couch. "You do know how to flatter a lady."

  "Do you need flattering, Charlotte?"

  "No, but you used to be very good at it."

  Oliver chuckled. "The only way you can tell I really like you is if I stop flattering you. Just ask Ben. Who, by the by, is coming to the ball. Apparently, he's made a last-minute change in his schedule."

  Charlotte glanced up, startled. "Really? He never said anything this morning."

  "Intriguing." Oliver's eyes twinkled as if she had just confirmed a suspicion he'd been harbouring. "I am sure as your two oldest friends you'll do us both the honour of a dance?"

  "You are not my oldest friends," Charlotte protested with a laugh.

  "Yes yes, I'm merely starting the rumour mill spinning. Everyone loves a tale of old friendships and new romances."

  "Oh no. New romances? What are you speaking of?"

  "Just generalities dear, everyone loves those sorts of tales." Oliver turned to her, unperturbed. "Have you your eye fixed on anyone in particular, in the husband market? That is, after all, why I hear you're in town. I am excellent at plotting to help women ensnare their prey."

  Charlotte hesitated, studying Oliver. There was something so sad about the way his brows pulled together, even as his mouth was smiling. Was it the headache?

  She stood up and stepped forward. "Might I ask you something? And give me your word as a gentleman this stays between us."

  "Certainly." Oliver tilted his head, watching her approach.

  "I can tell you have a headache. It's part of my... gift. Will you let me soothe it away? It's just that sometimes, if I don't let it out, it feels like I'll burst."

  Oliver continued watching her with the same quizzical expression frozen on his face. She had a feeling she had shocked him, only he was accustomed to not showing it. Slowly, his head tilted up and down in a nod, so she stepped forward even closer, and laid her fingers against his temple.

  Her magic surged up against her skin, eager to help, blossoming to life in a thousand radiant blooms of red and purple behind her eyelids, before surging into Oliver's head, surrounding his pain and whisking it away, as if flinging the dew off their petals.

  As she pulled away, Oliver seized her hand, peering deep into her eyes. His voice was hoarse as he spoke. "I would be careful not to use that trick too much in London, dear."

  Charlotte frowned up at him and drew her hand from his grasp. "I won't."

  "This is serious."

  "I... I know."

  Oliver stayed close, still stooping to meet her gaze. "Tell me... do you really blame us, Charlotte? For Avery's death?"

  She swallowed hard, raising her chin, and forced herself to be honest. "Yes. I blame the Conclave. But... I trust you. It's just something about Lord Winters. He drives me mad."

  Oliver considered that for a moment, then released her from his gaze and stepped back. His genial smile spread across his features once more, though the sad tilt of his brow remained. "Well then. I look forward to seeing you both at that ball, trying not to go mad."

  Chapter Eleven

  The Duchess’ Ball

  Ben glared at his reflection in the mirror and smoothed down his black jacket. Did he look too much like an undertaker? He never kept up on the fashions, he just had Oliver commission him a formal suit every season and wore it when necessary. Now facing a night out in the stiff, elegant jacket and fanciful cravat, Ben couldn't help but fear Oliver was playing a joke on him.

  Why did he find himself so unaccountably nervous? It was going to be like every other ball. He would show up, mingle around being clutched at by strangers, find the Earl, do his business, and leave. Perhaps a dance with Charlotte before he went. Nothing to be nervous about. Except that the esteemed lady would step on his toes.

  "Blast it." Ben tore off the lacy cravat and the overcoat, and sorted through his closet to find the more relaxed style from last season. He eased it over his shoulders and gave a sigh of relief.

  Feeling much more himself, Ben perched on his desk and picked up his notebook to review his scribblings. At the moment he had too many random words written with circles and arrows and question marks, attempting to make connections.

  Hastings was currently at the top of the page, circled in one angry slash of ink. The earl had gone deep undercover, disappearing from society for months to assume the guise of a black magic practitioner. He had been attempting to seek out any major practitioners who might be a danger to the populace. However, along the way he had managed to uncover an entire list, of how many names Ben didn't know, of other black magic practitioners in London.

  Ones that the earl had deemed "harmless."

  It was a full list of potential suspects, and even possibly potential victims. That remained to be seen. He had to remember; the focus was the list. The focus was the investigation, and somehow testing the earl's loyalty. He wanted to trust Hastings, but it was difficult to trust a man so accomplished in the art of deception and spy work.

  At best, these murders were the work of one sick individual who was attempting to perfect some kind of ritual and had discovered pleasure in the act.

  At worst, someone was attempting something much bigger, something Ben hadn't fully discovered the truth of yet. Perhaps even an attempted takeover of the Conclave, somehow, to transition its members to black magic. The Conclave was influential in the business of the Crown and had the ear of the Queen herself. A takeover could change the course of history.

  And it couldn't happen on his watch. Ben snapped the notebook closed and tucked it into his inner pocket. He couldn't very well take his whole satchel to a ballroom, so he just put a small pouch of salt and a sprig of angelica into his pocket as well, then picked up his cane.

  He exited the massive study and began striding through the ominous halls of this monstrosity he now called home. He had liked his modest estate towards the centre of town. It had been private, but still the sounds of hustle and bustle would fill the quiet moments, and the light would filter in through the wide windows.

  Now he had to live in Windy Oaks, the ancient mansion provided for the Conclave leader. It was also where the Conclave library was stored, and the meeting room where they held their gatherings once a month. The grounds were enormous, with well-kept grasses and gardens, peaceful and beautiful. The house itself loomed joyless and dark, closed off from the outside by magical protections and layer upon layer of warding spells cast over the centuries. It was so well guarded not even light could filter through the great obsidian windows lining the walls.

  Ben burst outside of the stifling environment and sucked a few welcome breaths of the crisp night air into his lungs. At the very end of the long drive, lined on either side by tall oak trees, he could spot Oliver's thoroughbred. The moonlight glinted off his cousin's blonde hair as he sat his horse with perfect posture, waiting.

  There was the comforting clop of hooves and Ben turned to see his own mount being led forward by his groom. He nodded his thanks and took a moment to inspect Merlin, stroking down the horse's neck and silky mane.

  "Thank God there will be no carriages tonight," he muttered in Merlin's ear, before pulling himself up into the saddle and settling in.

  He cantered down to meet Oliver, then past him. The two men rode through the night together, making their way along the muddy roads from the outskirts of London towards the warm and welcoming Duchess of Leighton's ballroom.

  Ben could tell they were close when the street began to fill with carriages, all flocking forward, trying to reach the front door to let out their passenge
rs before pulling around to the side of the estate.

  "Quite a press tonight," Oliver remarked as they slowed their horses. They were able to guide their mounts through and around the carriages and partygoers, towards the small group of grooms awaiting them.

  Handing over his reins to one of the grooms, Ben dusted off his suit jacket, removing his riding gloves and tucking his cane beneath his arm. "There always is, yet you are always surprised."

  "No, nodcock, I'm trying to train you. That's the sort of comment you make in polite society," Oliver explained with a twinkle in his eye, arranging his hair from its windblown appearance. "'What a crush it is,' and 'how lovely does such and so debutante look,' and 'can you believe how fine the weather is tonight.'"

  "Just help me keep an eye out for Hastings. And Charlotte." Ben cast his eye around the crowds of people teeming towards the entrance.

  It might be harder to find anyone than he thought. All the fine dresses and flounces and silk bows started to blend after a time. He blinked, closing his eyes against the dizzy sensation, and when he opened them again, Oliver was already gone.

  Damnit. He loved his cousin, but the man always did this. Going off, being the social butterfly and making connections, leaving Ben to bumble his way around the edges of rooms looking for familiar faces.

  If that's what the evening had in store, he had best get to it. He began shouldering up the steps, handing over his invitation, then muscling his way to the front of the greeting line, where the Duchess of Leighton's powdered wig bobbed and weaved above the heads of other guests.

  He bowed over her hand and managed to escape through the throng before she could begin peppering him with her signature barrage of questions. The room was enormous, so once he got past the initial press at the entrance, he was able to drag in a few more deep breaths and take a turn about the room.

  The ceilings were high, and the burgundy and gold-painted walls were decorated in flowers and rippling swaths of cloth, creating a sumptuous feeling and fresh smell despite the large number of people milling about. The walls of the ballroom were lined with a balcony, and - there. High above, swirling a glass of brandy, Hastings was leaning over the edge of the balcony, clad in the same elegant style that Ben had discarded, but in resplendent burgundy. Ben wouldn't put it past him to have matched his attire to the room just to set himself at advantage aesthetically.